


The Stories of the King of Fillory

by conceptofpeaches



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anthology, Anxiety, Canon Divergence, Daddy Issues, Dating, Domestic Boyfriends, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eliot is kind of mean sometimes, Eliot recovering, F/M, Fillory (The Magicians), Flirting, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Magic Illness, Minor Illness, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Physical Kids Cottage (The Magicians), Post-Season/Series 04, Recovery, Romeo and Juliet References, Sexual Jokes, Shadeless Eliot, Short Stories, Sick Character, Smoking, Therapy, binge eating, conversion therapy, domestic partnership, implied/referenced eating disorder, puke, recovering Eliot, recovering Quentin, season 5 never happened, unspecified feeding or eating disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25179622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofpeaches/pseuds/conceptofpeaches
Summary: An anthology of King Eliot the Spectacular and some of the bullshit he had to experience. Lots of Queliot. This is post-season 4. The Monser is defeated. Quentin was brought back from the Underworld. Season 5 never happened, because frankly, I could give a shit, and I also haven't watched it yet.
Relationships: Fen/Margo Hanson/Josh Hoberman, Margo Hanson/Josh Hoberman, Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	1. The Fillorian Flu

**Author's Note:**

> The time that Eliot got sick.

Eliot was sick. And not in the extremely cringy  _ Lords of Dogtown  _ way either. Eliot was  _ very _ ill. This whatever-it-is had been brewing in and attacking Eliot for about three days now, and at this point all he could do was lay in his bedchambers uselessly. He was quarantined from the rest of the castle, only allowed social interaction when being fed or when Pickwick scurried in to ask--in Margo or Fen’s place--for advice on how to rule a kingdom. The small man had slowed in his visits after half way through day two of the mysterious Hell Fever.

Fen was kind enough to explain that it was the Fillorian Flu and the symptoms were a (severe) fever, nausea, shaking, magic discharge in Magicians, possible nose bleeds, and delirium.  _ Great. _

Eliot hadn’t yet experienced the flashes of uncontrollable magical bursts, nor had he gotten a bloody nose. Yet. He was bedridden, however, with the worst hallucinations he’s experienced since he went to the Electric Forest Festival in 2017 with Margo and took some not so nice STP.

First, it was the yelling. Shouting outside his chamber door. His dad screaming his name. Saying what he would do when he found his son. Second, it was the moths. He watched helplessly as they swarmed his room. Crawling on the ceiling, the blankets,  _ on him _ . Third, fairies. Eliot wasn’t so much scared of them as he was irritated and unsettled by the floating, impossibly beautiful albino creatures and their beady black eyes.

The king was now just waiting for the next wave of nausea, the next wave of less than satisfactory imagery. If he could, he would have jumped when he saw Quentin Coldwater rush into the room. Eliot frowned, cursing his brain for choosing this as the next bout of psychosis.

“Q,” he deadpanned, not even hiding his incredible distaste for the situation. Quentin had thrown his bag down, looking like he was a second away from ripping his (incredibly soft and luscious hair) from his scalp. The shorter man had halted and stood awkwardly, looking a bit anxious about the disappointing greeting. “If you’re here to suffer, die again, or-- _ god forbid _ \--grant me a severe case of blue balls while I’m already sick, then I would really appreciate it if you turned your dopamine induced ass around and go away.”

Quentin screwed his eyebrows together in confusion and slight hurt, “What? El-- I-- _What?_ ”  
Eliot swallowed, realizing his mistake in assuming as well as insulting what could be the real, flesh and blood Quentin Coldwater.

“You’re a hallucination, right?”

“Uh,” Q glanced away awkwardly and then back at Eliot, tilting his head a tiny bit. “No?”

“Oh.” Eliot simply said.

They simply stared at each other.

“Let me rephrase,” The sick Magician smiled dreamily at the other, and switched to a softer, more enthusiastic and breathy tone. “ _ Q _ …”

Quentin closed the distance between them and then knelt down at the other king’s side. He looked concerned. Eliot groaned inside.

_ Please, Quentin, _ he begged internally.  _ I hate when you worry about me. _

“Uh,” he looks away, embarrassed. “Sorry for...accusing you of being a...hallucination…”

“It’s alright,” Quentin laughs a little, shaking his head. “But, um…  _ Blue balls _ ?”

Eliot’s cheeks heated. He smiled briefly, more out of nerves than any other emotion he could be feeling through this shitty haze of malaise. Quentin chuckled, reaching up and plucking a curly lock of hair off of Eliot’s sweat slicked face. Eliot sighed and slid his eyes closed, relaxing a little.

“Hey.” Quentin said softly.

Eliot opened his eyes and glanced at his companion, smiling gently, “Hey.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you more.”

“I doubt it.”

Eliot knew somewhere in his core that Quentin meant it in a cute, teeth rottingly sweet way, but could help the sting it caused in his chest. Or maybe that was the flu killing him. He lifted his hands to brush Quentin’s cheek gently.  _ God _ , he felt like he had twenty pound weights strapped to his wrists. His hand fell and rested on Quentin’s shoulder instead. The man promptly grabbed Eliot’s wrist and pulled the limp hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle softly.

It was tender and soothed the dull ache in Eliot’s heart at the possible self-deprecating jab that his partner had made. He smiled nonetheless, “ _ Hey, _ I said no teasing me.”

Quentin laughed a little, still holding Eliot’s hand to his face. The sick king scowled.

“I...don’t want to get you sick either.” He licked his dry, chapped lips with his dry tongue. Quentin shook his head.

“I found an incantation to keep me from getting sick,” he explained. “I should have a few hours...and a nasty hangover tomorrow.”

“Well,” Eliot sighed. “It should be okay--”

“I...may have casted it about five or six times.”

Eliot stared at Quentin with wide eyes, unsure if he should be frustrated with his boyfriend’s stupid indulgence or if he should be flattered. They stared at one another, Quentin challenged Eliot with his eyes a little. He was doing that (adorable) smirk where his lips curled at the corners like a cat.

“So,” Eliot smirked back. “You can kiss me for a few hours?”

“I can kiss you for a few hours.” Quentin nodded, amused by the request. He began laughing when Eliot started making obnoxious kissy noises. The man leaned down to place a chaste kiss on the other’s lips.

Eliot willed his arms up to hold Quentin’s face. His muscles ached, groaning at the movement and the weight of holding his limbs up. The kiss became a little more heartfelt, and Eliot wound up having to pull away to catch his breath.

Quentin waited, playing with a curl beside Eliot’s neck. When he was sure that the man was ready to answer he asked: “So, what...have you been hallucinating?”

“Oh, you know,” Eliot swallowed, keeping from making eye contact. “Unicorns, sugar plums, unresolved daddy issues…”

He hated the pitying look at Quentin gave him. Not because Quentin was giving him that look but because people thought they needed to give him that look. Eliot preferred keeping these things to himself and staying the poster child for  _ Life of the Party _ . He had to give that up once he was crowned.

“El, I think you should probably talk about it.” Quentin was gentle. Eliot closed his eyes, now wishing it was a hallucination. They had made promises when Quentin returned, however. One of them was recovery.

And Eliot’s therapist recommended the unspeakable: talking about it.

He opened his eyes. 

“I don’t want to, Q.” 

“I know, El.”

He had to admit,  _ I don’t want to _ was a weak argument. Eliot knew he couldn’t win--  _ Shouldn’t win _ this.

“Um,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “Well…”

“It’s okay, El,” Quentin smiled, his eyebrows screwed upward in concern.

“I was hearing...my dad,” Eliot forced the words out of his mouth. “And he was threatening me the way he did...back then. You know, the usual. ‘Wait until I find you. I’m going beat the queer out of you… I don’t allow faggots in my home.’”

He opened his eyes slowly, swallowing back the emotions that came with the memories. He needed a drink, or an entire cake, or an Ambien. Quentin was listening intently though, stroking Eliot’s cheek with his knuckle. And the sky wasn’t falling. Quentin was alive and here and touching him and  _ not a hallucination _ . He was even waiting, allowing Eliot to continue, get whatever he wanted out of his system.

“And then there were moths,” Eliot sighed, looking away. “They were crawling everywhere and I couldn’t really breathe.”  
Q nodded.

“And fairies… They weren’t really scary as much as they were wigging me out.” Eliot grimaced, earning a small smile from his boyfriend. He finally looked at Quentin again, who gazed at him with that (cute) twinkle in his eyes. Quentin was smiling at him, the one that reaches his eyes and squishes them into dark slits. He was staring at Eliot with nothing but pure love. It tugged at Eliot’s heartstrings and made him feel guilty.

_ How? _ He asks silently.  _ How can you love someone like me? And so much? Please don’t stop. Don’t stop loving me. _

“It’s okay, El,” Quentin was playing with Eliot’s hair again. “You’re safe. You’re doing so well.”

Eliot’s chest filled up and he swore he was drowning for a moment. When it softened, he smiled and let out a breathless laugh. He turned his head, placing the ghost of a kiss over Quentin’s knuckle.

He gazed at Quentin, “Stay? Come nap with me?”

“Uh,” The other man paused, in thought like he was doing calculus in his head. Eliot braced himself for rejection, a frown overtaking him. “I have about four or five hours left. Yeah, I can lay down with you.”

Eliot made a happy noise and almost started shuffling to make room in the bed, before Quentin stopped him. He placed a kiss on Eliot’s forehead and crawled over the man. He settled in at the king’s side, helping him get situated. Eliot laid his head on Quentin’s shoulder, playing with his fingers. They both wound up falling asleep.

  
It turns out that Quentin did not have four or five hours left. He had two. The next morning, the two were miserable. Miserable  _ together _ but still miserable. Quentin had a migraine and needed to drink almost as water as Eliot. He swore up and down never to cast the unnamed immunity spell again which made Eliot laugh a little. Eliot’s hallucinations only lasted the first three days, peaking on day two, thus he was in a sound state of consciousness the day they woke up together. Quentin had a fever, however.


	2. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Eliot went to therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of some pretty hefty subjects. No details, but there is mention of traumas, disordered eating, and self-medicating. Specific warning for the mention of conversion therapy.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. _

Eliot’s leg bounced anxiously. That clock was starting to bug him. He needed a cigarette. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The waiting room was too quiet. He was resting his chin on his hand, furiously chewing cinnamon gum to ground himself. Quentin Coldwater, his partner, sat beside him and every few moments the shorter man would offer comforting words.

“I know this is hard, El,” he murmured, taking Eliot’s other hand and smoothing his thumb over a small white line of a scar on his forefinger’s knuckle. “But I am  _ so _ proud of you. You’re doing great.”

Eliot’s nerves were so tight that he wanted to snap, tell his boyfriend to shut up. Start crying out of fear. Run out of the room, out of the building, and out onto the street. He couldn’t do that though, he had learned how to think about his impulses. Especially around Quentin.

Because really, he didn’t want to do any of that. The terrified teenager inside of him wanted to, simply to stay out of danger. What Eliot really wanted was to curl up and be held. He also wanted to make Quentin truly proud. He was being praised for simply sitting in the waiting room--he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“I…” Eliot swallowed, looking at Quentin but not making eye contact. His dark eyes stared past the other man. “I don’t know if I can do this, Quentin. My throat feels like it’s closing up. I need a Xanax.”

Quentin gave him a concerned yet warning look, smoothing his hand over Eliot’s knee. He sighed, “Just try to be honest with them, okay? Dean Fogg recommended them to us for a reason. They’ll understand what we’ve-- What  _ you’ve  _ been through.”

The long legged man huffed, finding the response to be not what he needed at the moment. In the back of his mind, however, he knew that if anyone should go with him to his first therapy appointment, it was Quentin. The only other person who would have gone was Margo, but she was chained to Fillory as it’s High King. Plus, she would have doped him up as soon as they left the penthouse, to ease his nerves.

Apparently that wasn’t very  _ recovery focused _ .

“Waugh? Eliot Waugh?” A voice called. Eliot looked up to see a very pretty blonde in a professional--yet tasteful--black dress. She met eyes with him almost immediately and gave a warm smile, holding a clipboard close to her chest. She met him at his chair, which he suddenly felt very attached to. Her arm stretched out to offer a pale hand, which he shook weakly. The woman glanced between Eliot and Quentin.

“I am...Eliot.” Eliot stated dumbly.

“My name is Rachel Emmory.” The woman beamed. Her lips were berry purple, and Eliot silently applauded the woman for knowing how to balance such a vampish colour on pale skin. “No need to call me anything but Rachel. Are you ready, Eliot?”

She looks at him, dark eyes focusing in on him. She was studying him already. Eliot sank deeper into his seat, swallowing and giving Quentin a panicked expression. The man offered Eliot an encouraging smile.

“Um,” he looked back up at Rachel. “Maybe…”

“It’s okay to be nervous.” She nods warmly and takes a step back to give him as much space as he needed.

“Can my...boyfriend maybe come with us?”

He reached for Quentin’s hand and looked hopefully at Rachel. She frowned in sympathetic disappointment. Eliot looked down, panic filling his chest.

“I’m sorry, Eliot,” she gave him a small smile. “For now, I just need to speak with you. Is Quentin on your release form?”

“Uh,” Eliot thought back to the previous week when Quentin had helped him fill out paperwork. “Yes. He is.”

“Then he can come back once we finish talking one on one, okay?”

“Okay.”

Eliot gave Quentin one last helpless look before standing and following Rachel behind the receptionist’s desk and to the hallway of offices. The place was warded up the ass and Eliot wondered why.

Eliot was still walking with a limp and a cane so Rachel was kind enough to follow his pace instead of scurrying ahead of him. They passed a fish tank, a terrarium, and a nurse’s station. Finally, she opened a door at the end of the hallway and held in for him. Eliot gulped and then entered the room. Rachel shut the door with a soft  _ click _ and sat in a plush computer chair across from it. Eliot chose the dark blue loveseat placed beside the door, stretching his leg out and leaning his cane on the arm rest.

Rachel was silent for a little bit, letting Eliot drink in his surroundings. The office smelled like fresh paint, and the air conditioning above them sighed endlessly. He was grateful that Quentin brought his cardigan with them. It was a pretty ivory colour and smelled like Q since it’s always wrapped around his pillow.

“Eliot,” Rachel leaned forward, getting comfortable. “Feel free to skip my curiosity; I don’t want to push you too fast, but… You seem very apprehensive to be here.”

That was the last thing Eliot expected if he was being honest.

“Are you like...a psychic or something?”

Rachel gave him a kind smile like she’d been asked that a lot, “Clairsentience. It’s a subtype of sorts to psychics.. Don’t worry, Eliot, I don’t use my discipline here. It goes against the American Magical Community’s own HIPAA laws.”

“Oh.” Eliot deadpans, refusing to make eye contact with the woman, instead focusing on a glass welter’s cube replica sitting on her desk next to a tall, potted bamboo plant. Rachel seemed to be very patient and warm. Eliot couldn’t decide if he found it comforting or scary.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Eliot.” Rachel said softly. He panicked briefly and glanced at her in alarm. She was sitting comfortably in her chair, her slip on shoes kicked on onto the floor.  _ Were therapists allowed to do that? _

He sighed, looking down at his lap and picking at his cuticles, something he had sworn off doing when he was a First Year at Brakebill’s. Eliot licked his lips to prepare himself for the information he was going to share.

“My parents,” he simply said. Rachel seemed to perk up with interest, setting her hands in her lap and clasping them. “They sent me to conversion therapy when I was...fifteen.”

“Mhm.” Rachel hummed. She waited, but when he didn’t say much more she gave him a sincere look. “That must have been very invalidating and  _ scary _ .”

Eliot widened his eyes briefly and glanced at her, the tension in his shoulders leaving for a moment.

“Yeah...it was.”

Rachel studied him before gesturing to his cane, “May I ask about…”

He swallowed and tilted his head, trying to force the hazy memories of Unnamed down. His voice was soft but casual as if he were talking about his cat, “I was possessed by a monster.”

“And it hurt you?”

“Not physically, no,” Eliot finally dared to look at her, smiling at her. The smile didn’t reach his eyes however. “But I guess that’s why I’m here.”

“Why else do you think you’re here, Eliot?”

“Uh,” his face paled a bit. He didn’t like to admit to his  _ problems _ . “Unresolved trauma...an impressive history of alcohol and drug use…”

Rachel nodded, looking at her clipboard to double check what had been entered into the office’s records. She glanced at him and smiled.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

Eliot pondered the question before finally responding, “Did you ever need-- Um, were there any issues you--”

He stumbled over the wording. Rachel seemed to know what he was asking.

“I’m not allowed to share this kind of information, but I struggled with eating issues and anxiety as a teenager.” She answered, a little embarrassment in her voice.

Eliot slumped a little in his seat, both feeling more relaxed by her honesty as well as feeling guilty due to it. He silently prayed that she didn’t feel obligated to share that personal information. He worried his lip and stared at a spot on the floor. The charcoal gray carpet looked new and spotless.

“What do you mean by ‘unresolved trauma’, Eliot?” Rachel returned to her soothing, guiding tone.

“Oh, you know,” he rolled his eyes. “Homophobic bastard dad, middle school, running away from home, becoming a homeless queer youth on the streets of Manhattan, having to keep fighting off the greatest evils to save the world, killing gods, watching everyone I love and the few that loved me back die… Just textbook stuff.”

Rachel didn’t seem phased by the craziness of it all. She simply exhaled and nodded, “Henry Fogg did tell me about your particular...situation.”

Eliot suddenly wanted to leave very badly. He was in unknown territory, or at least it wasn’t  _ familiar _ territory. He sat up again as if he were preparing to stand up and leave (which he really contemplated doing). Rachel watched him and then closed her eyes as if she made a hard decision.

“Would you be more comfortable if I brought Quentin in to support you while we talk?” She asked softly. Eliot’s eyes darted to her face and that was all she needed. She stood up and slipped her shoes back on to her feet while smoothing the skirt of her dress. “I’ll be right back, Eliot.”

She stepped out of the office and Eliot listened to her footsteps pad off down the hall. He waited, growing more anxious the longer he had to sit in the room by himself. He stared at the intricate yet contemporary analog clock sitting on Rachel’s desk. Each tick of the second hand was loud enough to tighten his stomach.

He heard Quentin and Rachel walking back from the waiting room.

“...crowned me, uh...King Quentin, the  _ Moderately Socially Maladjusted _ . We each got these cool crowns and…”

Eliot found himself melting and smiling to himself. Quentin was  _ safe _ and he was  _ still here _ . Eliot had helped Quentin escape the Underworld, shade and all--mostly because Eliot demanded that Julia show him how to do so.

“Hey.” Quentin softly cooed and gave a lopsided smile, sitting beside Eliot and taking his hand by reflex.

“Hey.” Eliot smiled a little, still anxious but feeling a little braver about the whole situation. His boyfriend was sitting beside him. No one could hurt them. No one  _ would _ hurt them.

Rachel closed the door again and then sat down in her chair. When she was fully seated, she spoke.

“Eliot and I decided that it would be more beneficial to have you sit in on the session with us,” she explained, looking at Quentin. He nodded, saying something about understanding. “We were simply breaking down why he’s come in today, but I’m sure we can use the time to talk about your relationship and some of your...shared experiences.”

Quentin glanced at Eliot and squeezed his hand.

“Is that okay, El?”

Eliot nodded, sitting a little more comfortably. He looked up at Rachel and took a deep breath. He felt much safer, repeating to her some of the things that he has shared with Quentin.

“Quentin is my...domestic partner,” Eliot fixes his gaze back on the carpet, suddenly very aware of how uncomfortable it was to look Rachel in the eyes. “He helped me talk myself into coming here.”  
“And Quentin,” Rachel nods, scribbling something on her clipboard. She never let go of it. “If I may ask, how did you go about this?”  
“I’ve, um--” The man looked awkwardly around, not expecting to be addressed so suddenly. “I have a therapist, actually. It was really more like...answering his questions, I guess.” His voice lowers self consciously. “Easing his anxiety…”

Rachel nodded again and glanced between the two. She was asking her question from earlier. Eliot shut his eyes tight and took another deep breath.

“My parents...sent me to conversion therapy. When I was fifteen.” He swallowed back the familiar tightness in his sinuses, willing himself to keep from crying. “It was all kind of...a surprise.”

Rachel looked concerned but continued listening. Eliot’s eyes flit around the room. He half expected the ceiling tiles to fall on him. They didn’t. He was safe. It was hard to believe, but he wasn’t going to be hurt for saying his feelings.

He looked at Quentin, who smiled and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.  _ I’m proud of you _ .


	3. The Other Eliot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time Eliot talked to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of rushed and I'm tired so it's not very thought through. It's a lot of Eliot mourning and being mean to himself so proceed with caution.

Had he not known what was being done, Eliot would have assumed he was stepping into a tent at a rave. The Tesla Flexion was not something he expected to have ever needed to step into. The thing was that he and his friends  _ needed _ to figure out how to get back the button.

Quentin was still in the Underworld, and Julia told him that when she had gone before, they needed to sacrifice the small object to be granted passage. Eliot assumed that maybe, he would need it again in order to replicate the process. The issue was that (obviously) they did not have it anymore.

“Eliot,” Julia’s smoky voice broke him from the anxious spell he was under. “Remember, you only have two minutes, and  _ don’t touch anything _ . It could literally rip our world apart.”

He stared down at her, and slowly nodded. Everything felt so heavy, Eliot was still processing the events after his exorcism. He hadn’t slept at all in the hours leading up to this, and now he felt bogged down and exhausted. He couldn’t stop thinking.

_ In all forty timelines, Quentin Coldwater had died. What if he couldn’t come back like Alice had? _ Eliot had a bitter, resentful taste in his mouth. He was jealous of Alice, but he knew it wasn’t her fault that this had all happened. He sighed and shook himself to try to stop thinking about her.

“Are you ready?” Julia placed her hand on Eliot’s arm, trying to comfort him. Her brows were knit together in worry and sadness.

“No,” He forced a smile. “But I don’t have a choice.”

That only seemed to deepen the concerned lines on Julia Wicker’s face. Eliot wouldn’t know, he had already turned around and was limping to the entrance of the Tesla Flexion. Margo caught his eye from her assigned spot and all he could do was look away sadly. Julia got into her own spot, and Eliot slipped into the tent.

“Ready, El?” Margo called.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I knew I would hear that question a million fucking times.” Eliot rubbed his temple, while the girls outside started the spell. Two minutes starting…

“Wow, you look like shit.” A casual drone brought him out of his haze of annoyance. Eliot opened his eyes to see, well...himself. This Eliot looked younger, though much more disheveled than he remembered ever being in this timeline.

“I could say the same thing.”

They just stared at one another with distaste. The other Eliot was smoking a cigarette, holding it between his fingers. He looked arrogant and annoying. Eliot hated that.

He also never quite liked the way he looked either, but damn if he wasn’t envious of the wrinkle free face this Eliot possessed. There was a haunted, stressed darkness in his eyes, though. It was unnerving.

“I need the button.” Eliot said bluntly, leaning on his cane. The Other Eliot rolled his eyes and laughed coldly.

“And you think  _ I _ have the Button to Fillory?”

“Yes…” He responded. It sounded like a question.

“Well,” the Other Eliot sighed. “I don’t have it. No one here has it. Q went into Fillory with it on his own and got fileted by Martin fucking Chatwin.”  
Eliot was starting to get frustrated with himself and heat pooled in his scalp. His tone became more aggravated as he spoke, “Stop dicking around, I need that button to get to the underworld.”

The Other Eliot gave him a look of pure amusement before he snorted and burst into laughter. He sounded maniacal and looked genuinely unbothered by whatever had happened in his timeline.

“No, no you don’t, you fucking dimwit.” He giggled, covering his mouth with his hand. Eliot swallowed back hot, angry tears.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Eliot snapped, desperately resisting the urge to punch himself in the face. “Your best friend is dead, and you’re just… What the fuck?”

“El, you have one minute left!” Margo called from outside the tent

The Other Eliot sneered at himself, taking a long drag of his cigarette and blowing it in his face. Eliot blinked the smoke away from his eyes and grimaced. When he opened his eyes, the Other was unbuttoning his own shirt. Had it not been a dire situation, Eliot would have made a joke about it.

But he didn’t. Eliot didn’t have time for jokes anymore.

The Other Eliot pulled his shirt to the side to reveal a fat, healed scar under his clavicle. Eliot’s stomach twisted in fear, and his own wounds ached at the sight.

“I ripped my shade out to get Quentin.” The Other Eliot said matter-of-factly. “And obviously, it didn’t fucking work.”

Eliot’s tears spilled over and made searing hot, wet trails down his cheeks. It was uncomfortable. It was scary to see what he had done in a different lifetime just to get Quentin Coldwater back. Because Eliot had considered it at one point.

He doesn’t like the results.

“What do I do?” He asked, staring at himself hopelessly.

“Nothing,” The Other Eliot hissed, dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it into the ground with his heel. “He’s never coming back.” He paused and gave Eliot a once over. “Especially not for you and your massive inferiority complex.”

“Eliot, we gotta shut this thing down!” Margo warned.

Eliot glared at himself and swallowed down a ball of emotions.

“I’m finished anyway.” He responded, loudly. The Other Eliot waved daintily at Eliot and sang a small  _ tata _ before the lights in the tent dimmed and he had fizzled out and disappeared like a glitch.

Eliot looked down and saw the flattened cigarette butt.

He really needed a new plan.


	4. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time Eliot celebrated his anniversary with Quentin.

Fillory was beautiful in the morning. The woodlands filtered sunlight through the trees like spotlights, and fog rose from the wet, cold ground as it tried to warm up. The moons still peeped through the atmosphere to greet Fillory. Dew collected on flowers, both opened and closed. The light that the sun provided caused the droplets to twinkle like gems.

The Mosaic was wet in the morning. The tiles were glassy and slippery, and the sunlight didn’t hit them over the shadow of the cottage. Moisture collected on the blankets and furs on the beds and chairs outside, making them uncomfortable to lay in first thing in the morning. It didn’t usually clear up until mid-morning to noon depending on the season. Fillory’s seasons were erratic though, so the climate was always unpredictable.

The morning was when Quentin liked to work the most. Eliot, on the other hand, loved to sleep in after working into the night. Always the romantic, he claimed that it was to spend time with his family during the day time. Today was different, however, because when Quentin rolled over, both Eliot and Arielle--their wife--were gone. Or at least not in the cabin.

He pulled himself out of bed and stretched, grimacing at the horrendous popping noise that his joints made. He was thirty-five now. Eliot was a bit older, having spent more time in Fillory before they both stepped through the clock into Old Fillory. The time difference between Earth and Fillory was large, and thus Eliot had aged as king while Quentin spent time on Earth. They both understand that it wasn’t either of their faults, they had simply been victims of consequence. Unfortunately, Eliot and Quentin’s partnership didn’t come without bumps, and Eliot had made it very loud and clear how lonely he had been waiting all that time for Quentin to visit him.

Quentin Coldwater pulled on a tunic, a bit concerned that both his spouses were missing.  _ And where was Teddy? _

“Did they leave me behind?” He muttered to himself. He plucked a large, ripe peach from the counter of the small kitchen, before stepping out into the morning. Quentin was relieved to see Eliot smelt at the mosaic, placing tiles according to a page of math that Quentin had finished the night before at dinner.

He took a bite of the fruit and strolled to the large square, waiting for Eliot to notice that he was awake.

“Arielle took Teddy out to the river with her to do laundry, and then she’s supposed to go see her father,” Eliot drawled, not looking up from his work. He was looking down his nose so he could see through his glasses. He had just gotten them the week prior. “They’ll be gone for the whole weekend.”

Quentin walked the border of the Mosaic and sat down in an old wicker chair facing Eliot. He smiled, swallowing his current bite of fruit, “Why didn’t you wake me up so they could say goodbye?”

“We wanted to let you sleep,” Eliot answered, pausing his organizing and sitting straight up to look at Quentin. He smiled back. “Teddy was being fussy all night and we didn’t know if you had gotten sleep or not.”

Quentin had actually slept soundly. He didn’t hear anything from their son.

Eliot got up slowly, groaning as he unbent his knees. His joints were always creaky and angry in the morning. He was starting to gray as well, silver painting his sideburns and a few locks of his curls. Lines had developed at the corners of his eyes. Quentin found it quite beautiful, how magnificently his partner had aged.

Eliot stepped over tiles carefully to meet Quentin at the edge of the Mosaic. Quentin stood up from his seat and Eliot took the peach from him. He took a bite from it, juice trickling down his chin, and smiled while wiping it away with the back of his hand. He leaned down and Quentin pecked him on the lips, something that made Eliot’s eyes crinkle in content.

“Why are _you_ up so early, though?” Quentin asked, raising his eyebrows like he was about to scold the taller man. “Very unlike you.”  
“Oh, stop.” Eliot chuckled, patting Quentin’s cheek. “You’re gonna get lines in your forehead, darling.”

Quentin raised just one eyebrow now, “Is that a dealbreaker?”

“Of course not.” Eliot leaned down, resting his forehead on his husband’s. “We’ve been together for ten years. Even if it were a deal breaker, where would I go?”

It was true. This morning marks their tenth anniversary being in a relationship as more than friends. Eleven years ago, they arrived in Fillory to complete the Mosaic and ten years ago, they realized the impossibility of returning to their timeline while also beginning a love story that none of their friends would ever really hear about.

“Happy anniversary, El.” Quentin smiles up at his husband, eyes twinkling.

“Happy anniversary, Q.” Eliot replies, placing a soft kiss on his lips.


	5. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time Eliot and Quentin had their first date.

“So what are we going to do?”

Eliot sighed, shrugging to the mirror where Margo’s reflection stared back at him. She was sitting at her desk in Fillory, discussing how to discipline a prisoner caught earlier that week. The prisoner was detained in Castle Whitespire’s dungeons and Eliot was currently trying to persuade her not to execute him.

“Let him off with a warning?” Eliot shrugged again, leaning back in his own desk chair. He smoothed his hands over his thighs, wiping sweat on to his trousers. He didn’t understand why the penthouse was always so warm. It was Quentin’s request to keep it warm and cozy.

“ _ Eliot _ ,” Margo hissed. “A warning isn’t gonna do a goddamn thing. The people are getting restless.”

“Bambi, he was picking fruit from the royal orchards, it’s not that bi--”

“He picked an apple from a  _ talking tree _ , Eliot,” she raised her eyebrows, obviously stressed by the situation. “I’m getting an ear-full from a tree family. A fucking tree  _ family _ .”

Eliot sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding with the density of his thoughts. Working from his Earth home was a pain in the ass.

“Okay,” he looked back at her, resting his head on his hand. “I will come back tomorrow and we can better assess the situation together.”

Margo’s jaw jumped, but her eyes softened and she sat back a little. Her crown seemed to weigh her down these days, while Fen was in Loria for a conference. She sounded small and it kind of broke Eliot’s heart.

“I miss you, El.”

“I miss you too, darling.” Eliot replied softly, sitting up and smiling sadly at her. She paused and looked up to speak to some else for a moment. When she returned her gaze to the mirror that she reached him through, Eliot exhaled softly. He was trying to loosen the tightness in his chest.

“Listen,” he sat forward, placing his elbows on the glass surface of his desk. “I have a date with Quentin tonight, that I would rather not miss. Tomorrow morning, I will get to you as soon as I possibly can. We will deal with Johnny Appleseed, and then tomorrow night…” he smiles at her “...we can dish out all of the horrifying drama to each other that we haven’t been able to talk about. I can have Q buy a fifth and I can make cocktails…”

She knew Eliot was risking a lot of his progress by bringing more than a pint of liquor to Fillory, but Margo gave him a grateful look anyway. She was aware of the plan that Eliot and Quentin had agreed upon to better limit his consumption. She was also aware of the tension that discussion had caused.

“El, you don’t have to do that. We can have a glass of wine like usual.” Margo recommended.

“It’s okay, I can get some Grey Goose, and--”

“Eliot.” Margo gave him a warning tone. She knew he was stressed and drinking was how he relieved that stress. Eliot looked away guiltily. They were silent for a bit. Margo stared with concern at Eliot, while he stared at the keyboard of his desktop beside the small stand mirror.

His cell phone chirped from his pocket and he perked up, leaning to reach into his pocket and retrieve it.

_ Omw home. Can’t wait to see you <3 _

Eliot smiled to himself, sending about twelve heart emojis back to Quentin in response. He looked up at Margo’s reflection. She smiled a little at him.

“Have fun tonight, El,” she said with sincerity. “You deserve it.”

He gave her a grateful look.

“And if there are any  _ details _ , I better be the first to fucking know.” Margo returned to her bitchy, brilliant self. Eliot chuckled a little.

“Always,” he reached up, ready to end the communication. “Keep serving looks, Margo. Shoulder pads look divine on you.”

He ended the connection.

This was Quentin and Eliot’s first, proper date. They had chosen a steakhouse in the West Village, and had made a reservation about two weeks in advance. Eliot was lying when he said he wasn’t scared out of his goddamn mind. He couldn’t remember when he had gotten this serious with someone without them dying or becoming a Dark Lord Douchebag before they could even make it official.

Technically, Quentin had already checked one of those boxes.

Eliot sighed heavily and shook his mouse, awakening his computer. He scrolled through news articles, searching for any abnormalities. After his return, Quentin decided to keep an eye on early signs of apocalypse. Outside of attempting to be a freelance hero, Quentin was running a small trinket and book store in Brooklyn. It was a real bookstore, too. All used and first editions.

The upper half of the store, cleverly disguised as an apartment to the muggle eye, held all sorts of magical scriptures. Quentin worked there a majority of the week, but he was strict with himself on coming home to see his partner. For a little more privacy, Eliot and Quentin bought a neighboring penthouse to Kady and Julia’s. 

About thirty minutes passed when Eliot heard the front door open. His heart swelled and he quietly stood up, powering off his computer. He walked slowly to the doors of his office and opened one of the French doors to peer into the entryway. He caught Quentin’s ankle as it disappeared around the corner and into the kitchen. Keys jangled against the marble countertop and Eliot tiptoed through the entry hall and into the open-concept living room-dining room-kitchen.

Quentin was placing a leather folder onto the counter beside his keyring. His hair was styled neatly to show his face, which lit up when he turned around and saw Eliot standing nervously.

Eliot was twisting his wedding band around his finger, which had become more of a promise of friendship between Fen and him. He was shifting nervously, pre-occupied by the thought that Quentin had been dead just a couple of months prior. Eliot looked like he was looking at a ghost.

Quentin smiled reassuringly and walked to Eliot, reaching up and squeezing his arm. He lifted himself on his tip-toes and placed a small kiss on Eliot’s cheek. Eliot pulled the other man in for a hug, burying his face in Quentin’s neck and taking a deep breath to prove to himself that Quentin was real.

“El,” Quentin rubbed his back. “Where’s your cane? You shouldn’t be up without it yet.”

“Shh,” Eliot interrupted him and they were silent for a bit. “I missed you.”

Instead of questioning Eliot, Quentin smiled and nuzzled into his shoulder.

“I missed you too.”

They just stood there for what felt like hours, holding one another and just  _ existing _ . When they eventually pulled away from one another, Quentin reached up and brushed Eliot’s cheek with his thumb. Eliot leaned into the touch, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Quentin asked gently.

“Yeah,” Eliot answered. “Just...Fillory stuff. Margo needs me to visit tomorrow.”

“That’s okay, Eliot.” The shorter man fidgeted a little, fixing the collar of Eliot’s navy blue dress shirt. He had been slowly returning to a more colorful wardrobe since Quentin had been brought back. Quentin was happy to see it.

“Mm,” Eliot hummed, opening his dark eyes and staring down at Quentin. “How was work?”

“The hedge witches from last week came back and finally returned some primers they had lost.” Quentin sighed, returning Eliot’s gaze.

“They knew that you’re Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot smirks, sliding his hands down to rest on his boyfriend’s hips. “Fanboy-Extraordinaire and evident Super Hero.”

Quentin’s cheeks reddened and he looked away, flustered. Eliot watched him and then reached up to pick a dark fuzz out of Quentin’s hair before caressing his cheek.

“Hey.” Eliot murmurs.

Quentin looked up at him.

“I...adore you…” Eliot searches the other’s face for some sign that what he said was okay.

“I love you more, El.”

A flower bloomed in Eliot’s chest and he had to take a deep breath to relieve the pressure. He was still getting used to the fact that Quentin genuinely loved him and wanted him. He wasn’t afraid of Eliot and he was willing to come back from the dead if it meant that he could stay by Eliot’s side.

The restaurant was noisy, but in a soft way, like a blanket covered each table to privatize each section. The host had led and sat Eliot and Quentin to a tall booth in a less populated room. The steakhouse was chic, yet elegant. Eliot enjoyed the scene, it reminded him of his younger years when his only worry was either where he would sleep that night or where the next party was. These were the kinds of places that he fantasized about being. He was just going about it all wrong.

He struggled to get into the booth, fumbling with his cane and trying not to aggravate his wounds. He winced when he pulled himself inward one more time. Quentin watched him quietly, asking only once if he needed any assistance.

“I’m...I’m okay, Q.” Eliot reassured him, reaching across the table and taking his hand. They tangled their fingers together and smiled at one another simultaneously.

They looked over the menus, first the dinner menu, and then the beverage menu. Eliot rejected Quentin’s offer of the dessert menu, knowing he would only make himself sick by deciding everything at the moment and then eating too much.

“I’m thinking of getting...a glass of cabernet sauvignon,” Eliot said softly, running his thumb across Quentin’s skin. Uentin gave a worried look. “Is that okay? I-I won’t drink more than one.”

Quentin looked around in thought for a moment before nodding a little, “If you think you can…drink it without...triggering yourself.”

A bitter taste filled Eliot’s mouth and he regretted all the years he spent drinking the world away. Again. That was a regret he felt like he would never let go of. He swallowed and nodded, looking down and away. His eyes were distant and he glanced up at Quentin anxiously when he squeezed Eliot’s hand.

“Hey, Eliot.” He tilted his head to get a better look at his boyfriend. “I trust you.”

Eliot nodded again, “Okay.”

They ordered when the waitress stopped at their table. Quentin requested sirloin with potatoes and broccoli. Eliot ordered chicken caprese with a side salad and a few slices of garlic crostini. Quentin and him both got a glass of cabernet sauvignon and a glass of water.

The drinks arrived before the food, and Quentin got a big goofy, lopsided smile. Eliot noticed immediately and smiled a little bit in return, “What? What is it?”

“It’s just…” Quentin looked down sheepishly at his hands on the table, tapping a little. “It’s just, um, I’m really...happy.”

He said it like it was a question. Eliot quirked up an eyebrow, his stomach twisting.  _ Was Quentin not sure? _

“I mean, like, this is the happiest I have been,” he struggled, awkwardly trying to get his feelings out. “I know...um...I know that I--”

“Said the same thing to Alice Quinn right before murder ghosts kidnapped and traumatized us?” Eliot droned, feeling a slight feeling of sickening nostalgia in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t remember a lot from that period, but he remembered  _ that _ and the confusing emotion that tugged on him at the back of his mind. Quentin’s face dropped a little and Eliot closed his eyes, kicking himself. “I’m sorry, I-I was...jealous.”

Confusion washed over Quentin and he looked almost taken aback before squinting at Eliot.

“You--” He chuckles a little in disbelief. “You were jealous...back then?”

Eliot looked away shamefully. He gulped and plucked his wine glass up. Quentin put his hand on Eliot’s. He looked excited, like they had just solved the mysteries of the universe.

“El,” he stammered. “It’s okay. I’m not upset and I’m not laughing at you. I just--”

Eliot watched his partner struggle.

“I-I...I really liked you even...back then, Eliot.” He squeezed Eliot’s hand. “You were-- No,  _ I _ was really confusing myself. I loved being around you but I didn’t know why--”

“Quentin,” Eliot said slowly and low. “Are you confessing your Eliot Waugh induced gay panic?”

“What? I, um, yes?” Quentin laughed a little. “Bisexual fear?”

Eliot laughed quietly.

“I  _ really _ liked spending time with you, Eliot. I just-- I felt like I couldn’t-- Shouldn’t try to pursue anything?” Quentin admitted. “I was...unsure of who I was. And insecure about it. And Alice liked me and-and, I liked her. I just...stuck with what I knew.”

It hurt a little but Eliot felt relieved to know that the pining was mutual. Quentin continued.

“Okay, um, anyway…” He glanced away, anxiety visibly increasing. “I’m really happy to just... _ know _ who I am and I’m...with someone with whom I share a profound bond. I’m just  _ happy _ .”

Eliot’s eyes watered and he smiled, laughing a little. He sniffed and took his hand off of his wine glass to hide his mouth. He looked down, and then back at Quentin, at a loss for words. His glassy eyes reflected the dim light of the restaurant and he was smiling.

“Wow, Q,” he laughed again. “I…I am so glad… After everything you’ve been through, you deserve this...break.”

“You do too.” Quentin said softly, raising his eyebrows. Eliot smiled bigger, the corner of his eyes crinkling. He nods a little.

“I am, Q.”


	6. (TW) Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time that Eliot revisited some unhealthy habits.
> 
> (Content warning for disordered eating and graphic depictions of disordered behavior.

Eliot didn’t  _ love _ food perse. He wouldn’t say that he hated it either. What he loved was the way it filled the hole in him where something was missing. What he hated was himself. He hated his emotions. He hated his thoughts. Actions. Choices. He just loathed himself.

The taste of sugar made him feel better when he was sad. The taste of salt made him feel better when he felt angry. Junk food was delicious when he was high. Resplendent dishes were tasty when he drank a few bottles of wine. Sometimes, he didn’t need food to feel better. When he was tweaked off his ass, he had no appetite. Sometimes he just had enough drive not to eat, but that was few and far in between.

He hadn’t experienced an episode like this since he was in highschool. Now, here he was, sitting in Kady and Julia’s penthouse kitchen. Wrappers and containers crowded the counter of the island in front of him. Half eaten chinese take-out, empty sleeves of cookies, leftover spaghetti… He had practically emptied the fridge and cupboards.

Eliot sat as still as a statue, finally coming to his senses and realizing what he had done. His eyes darted across the trashed counter, panic rising in him as he counted each item. His stomach hurt, churning violently in the aftermath of his binge. He felt sick.

The feeling of pain turned rapidly into nausea, and he spun around. Throwing himself forward, Eliot puked into the garbage disposal side of the sink, retching and heaving. When that was over, he slid to the ground and held his stomach, biting back tears.

His wounds ached from the force of throwing up, and he had twisted wrong, agitating his hip. Dr. Lipson said that the Ice Axes had struck a nerve that connected itself to his hip and damaged it. Eliot found the pain unbearable at times, being reminded of the searing agony he had felt when he had awoken from his black out. He remembered wishing to die, but being grateful that he didn’t so he could see Quentin and try again to be with him.

But Quentin died.

And Eliot had no way to get to the Underworld.

The Tesla FLexion had caused him more heartache than anything else. That’s when he had started gorging himself on whatever he could find. He just wanted to forget, feel less or feel more, he couldn’t tell anymore. There was something missing inside of him and the alcove where it fit turned ice cold.

“El?” Margo’s voice came from the balcony of the upper level. She was staying the night after they opened the Tesla Flexion. “Eliot, are you down there? I thought I heard you ralph”

He covered his mouth with his hands, so she couldn’t hear him sobbing against the kitchen cupboards. He always felt disgusting afterwards, even more so when someone found him. He heard her slippers tap against the steps of the spiral staircase and slumped, disappointed that his hiding did not work.

“El, honey,” she called softly, shuffling toward his spot. “I know you’re in here…”

She stopped when she saw him huddled in the dark beside the sink. The only light in the kitchen came from the city lights coming in through the windows, and the hood of the stove. He looked gaunt in the poor lighting.

“Eliot,” Margo gasped, rushing to his side and kneeling down, pulling him into a hug. “Eliot, what’s wrong? What happened?”

He whimpered, crying into her shoulder hopelessly. Margo started swaying, rocking him back and forth. She placed kisses on his head, holding him tight but tenderly.

“Shh, it’s okay.” She whispered. “It’s okay. Does it hurt? Do you need a Codeine?”

Eliot thought hard about it but never said anything, so she never made a move to get anything for him.

“I miss him, Margo,” he cried. “I f-fucked up, again. I lost him. I keep ruining things…”

She just listened. She listened to him get everything out. About Quentin, about Eliot’s dad, about his own self-loathing. It tore her heart up, but knew it was probably the last time he would be so emotionally vulnerable for the decade.

“I’m such a fuck-up, Margo…” He had stopped crying now, hiccuping every few breaths. He had slid down so she was now cradling his head and playing with his curls and wiping his tears. “My dad was right.”

Margo was silent, taking a moment before she started speaking.

“El, I know it’s hard,” she swallowed, voice heavy with emotion. Why was she crying now? “I know. You’re not what your father told you though, El.”

It was a statement that she had said to him before, many times. He closed his eyes and squeezed some tears out of his eyes.

“Listen,” she sighed. “I know everything is shit. I know it hurts and it feels hopeless. I don’t know what Shadow Eliot told you, but... “

She took a deep breath after a long pause, tearing up and crying with him.

“Those months when that... _ asshole _ was using your body and I knew who you were, I agonized over the thought of never seeing you again.” Margo sniffled, rubbing his temple. “But I didn’t give up, El.

“And neither can you.” She helped him sit up and grabbed on to his shoulders, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes were fiery even in the dark. Eliot was frozen in place. “We don’t have the button, but we  _ will _ figure this out.”

Eliot glanced away, gulping, “He... _ I _ ...The  _ other _ me ripped out his shade to save Quentin, and even it...didn’t work.”

“That’s because he’s not  _ you _ , Eliot.” Margo declared. “He has not been through what you have. You can't give up just because it didn’t work in another lifetime.”

Eliot looked up at her, his chest filling with electricity. He sighed, still feeling horrible but also holding back on to a new shred of hope. He nodded.

“Now, El,” Margo continued, stroking his cheek. She pulled him toward her and kissed his forehead. “What happened? Why is the kitchen… Why?”

He flushed and was filled with a new feeling of shame. This wasn’t the first time she had caught him binging. In the years since Margo met Eliot, she actively tried to help keep him from these episodes. Sometimes she had to enchant chairs to keep him from running to a bathroom or going for a run around Brakebill’s green.

“I-I don’t know,” he answered softly. “I just wasn’t thinking I guess.”

“What triggered it?” She asked more specifically, already knowing the answer. “Was it the emotions or is it just the build up?”

Eliot was quiet for a long time, “Margo, I...I don’t want to talk about it.”

She studied his features before nodding and pulling him into another hug.

“Just, please, don’t give up.”


	7. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time Eliot had a heart to heart with Julia, and then gets a heartwarming surprise.

The corridors of Castle Whitespire were unnervingly calm. The night prior had been a reception for Fillory to celebrate. Eliot was sure the house staff was either sleeping off a hangover or helping other residents take care of one. He was up, however. And dressed in Earth clothing. It was still early Autumn in Fillory, and Eliot swore that the heavy, woolen Oxford he had on was giving him heat-stroke.

He was waiting for Julia Wicker, his boyfriend’s childhood best friend. She wanted to go shopping with Eliot, and he had enthusiastically agreed to go. Margo was in Sulton, having an incredibly important meeting. Quentin didn’t like going shopping much. And Fen was busy ruling Fillory. At their last Friday night bar party, Julia had said something about needing a new coat and Eliot nearly fell over with the force he used to stand up.

“El?” A smoky voice said softly from behind him. Eliot turned around and wobbled a little when he confirmed it was Julia. She smiled. “Hey.”

He smiled back a little, repositioning his cane for better support. Julia always managed to look worried or carried a sad look in her eyes, that’s what Eliot noticed. Then again, he had been told the same thing.

Julia was small compared to him, but she always carried such potent energy about her, that she seemed taller and stronger. She had noticed him shift and gestured to his cane.

“Um, how much longer did the doctor give you?” Julia asked curiously.

Eliot glanced down at the stick and sighed, “Physical therapy has been doing enough good that I should only have one more month. I can walk short distances, like around the apartment, but if I want to walk from one side of the castle to the other…” he trailed off before gesturing to her. “How about you?”

“As well as it can be,” Julia nodded a little and looked down at herself. “You know, a few twinges here and there. My body isn’t trying to rip itself open though.”

Eliot grimaced a little and opened his mouth before closing it again, like a fish. He swallowed thickly and sucked in a breath. He remembered the agony of the ice axes’ damage, and how all he could do was lay and crave some sort of out.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” His eyes darted around Julia’s features. He sounded unsure. “About the whole...uh, getting-possessed-by-an-ancient-evil-and-then-having-my-body-be-used-to-help-said-ancient-evil’s-older-and-more-terrifying-twin-sister-occupy-your-body thing.”

“Don’t worry.” Julia said reassuringly, in that slightly sarcastic tone. “It wasn’t your fault, I hope you realize that.”

He knew that it wasn’t his fault, but he still couldn’t help the feeling that he had a hand in the whole thing. He stared down at her, grateful that she forgave him. He finally asked “Ready to go?”

Burlington was not as extravagant as Eliot was used to, but it's where Julia insisted on going, not wanting to spend a huge amount of money, even when Eliot offered to pay for it. He was used to buying Joseph Abboud for himself, or even Alexander Wang when Margo and him went out.

They were sitting inside a contemporary coffee and ale shop. Julie was sipping at a very foamy latte from a large navy blue mug, while Eliot sipped an espresso from a dainty eggplant coloured cup.

“How do you not…” Julia licked a strip of white froth from her upper lip, thinking of how to phrase her question. “How do you not give in to temptation?”

“Of?” Eliot set his drink down and raised his eyebrows, tilting his head.

“Um, alcohol, I guess.” Julia gestured to the bar.

“First of all,” Eliot chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I am not fourteen; you will  _ never _ catch me drinking...beer.” His scowl showed just how much disgust he possessed from the beverage. “Second, I don’t  _ not _ give in to temptation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Quentin and I made a deal,” he sighed, looking up at her. “One drink a day. It’s usually wine, but if we go out, I might have a shot or a cocktail.”

“I-I guess, I’m just a little confused,” Julia furrowed her eyebrows, setting her own mug down and leaning forward. “When I was in rehab--”

“I’m not in rehab, Julia.” Eliot licked his lips, looking down and preparing himself. “I’m not even completely sure half the time if I can give it up. It’s how I survived for a long time, and completely giving it up really scares me.”

Julia watched him, nodding a little.

He takes a deep breath, releasing the tension in his chest, “I just know...that it’s not what he deserves. And I know-- I  _ know _ that I shouldn’t half-ass this or get better purely for someone else. This...isn’t my first rodeo.

“If getting better for Quentin is what motivates me at the moment, then it’s enough.” Eliot smiles sadly, leaning forward. Julia smiles back at him in understanding. It wasn’t full of pity or concern. Eliot liked that. “I’m still working on it.”

She reached forward and placed a hand on his, maintaining her twinkling eye contact. Eliot felt at ease. He always liked talking to Julia about these things. She was soft and motherly, but she was astonishingly strong and courageous. Julia could understand to a degree and empathize with Eliot, without turning it into a competition or being blunt to a fault. She coaxed Eliot out of his cage of a brain and listened to him.

“Julia?”

“Hm?”

“What-- Where was your happy place?”

She looked taken aback, slightly confused about his sudden interest. She stammered, “I-- Um, uh…”

“Sorry.” Eliot shrank a little, feeling guilty for asking such a personal question.

“No, Eliot,” she patted his hand. “It’s okay. It’s...just a little hard to answer.”

He quirked a brow.

“It was Fillory,” Julia smiled shyly, looking away. “When Quentin and I were on a quest.  _ The Witch and the Fool _ .”

“Ah,” Eliot leans back again and nods. “Right.”

“What about you?”

“The Cottage.”

“Really?” Julia knit her brows together again, this time in interest. “Was Quentin there?”

Eliot was quiet for a while before finally answering: “No.”

Her face dropped a little.

“I was too scared,” he looked down, running his finger over the tiny handle of his cup. “I think there was some part of me that was scared that if he was there, then I had to face the fact that I really, truly wanted him.”

Julia looked away, thinking about what he had just said.

“That makes sense.” She licked her lips. “When… When I didn’t have my Shade...I was able to avoid everything that had happened to me. Marina, Raynard, the abortion… I guess the same applies to the Happy Place.”

“I didn’t want to leave.” They both said at the same time. Eliot was indifferent as if he knew what was going to be said. Julia seemed a bit more surprised. About the same time, they smiled at one another.

The apartment was pitch black when Eliot unlocked the door. Julia was behind him, trying to hide her excitement. They made their way into the entryway, where Eliot slid off his wool coat and hung it up. He leaned his cane in the corner and let Julia hang up her new ivory coloured pea coat. Eliot and her walked through the archway into the living room.

“Q?” Eliot called out. His skin prickled with anxiety. Quentin was supposed to be home and getting ready for tonight’s bar party.  _ Was everything okay? Is he hurt? _

The lights flashed on, momentarily blinding Eliot.

“ _ Surprise!!” _

Eliot stopped in his tracks completely, speechless while all of his friends crowded around the coffee table. That’s when he heard it.

“Happy birthday, to you…” Quentin sang, the others joining in, as he shuffled from the kitchen island and around the couch to Eliot. In Quentin’s arms was a large sheet cake, candles smattered all across the surface of it.

Eliot’s face heated up and he couldn’t help but grin, eyes glassy.

_ Happy birthday, dear Eliot _ …

Quentin stopped, beaming up at his boyfriend. Eliot gazed down at him and then turned to look out at the attendees. Josh and Margo stood beside one another, arms around one another. Julia had joined Kady, and they were holding their phones up to record the moment. Penny sat on the couch, trying to act indifferent to the situation but a smile slipped through. Alice stood uncomfortably behind the couch, smiling shyly. Eliot turned to face Quentin again.

He blew out the candles.

“Happy birthday, El,” Quentin gave him that sappy smile like Eliot was the only thing there with him. “I love you.”

“I love you more, Quentin.”


	8. Call Me But Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time that Eliot was Romeo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set before Eliot and Quentin get together. This is kind of mean flirting, whoops. Quentin is experiencing bisexual panic.

Eliot couldn’t wipe the stupid and sllightly sadistic grin from his face. He lifted the wine glass in his hand and took a drink at the sweet, dark liquid just to try and hide the smug amusement plastered across his face. Quentin sat across from him, looking irritated in that nerdy way where he knows whatever he says isn’t going to sway Julia or Eliot’s opinion.

“They were  _ kids _ ,” Quentin stammered, speaking with his hands as if he were laying evidence out before all of them. Julia stifled a giggle from her spot beside Eliot on the floor in front of the love seat. “It’s not  _ romantic _ , it’s  _ stupid! _ ”

“Romeo wasn’t cute, he was a creep and should have had his dick chopped off.” Margo agreed, sprawled on the sofa. Despite her opposing opinion to Eliot’s fake on, she absent-mindedly played with his curls. It felt good, but not as much as teasing Quentin.

“Q, sweetheart,” Eliot drawled, finally soothing his grin into a smirk. “It’s a love that transcended the fear of oblivion.”

“And a love story that transcended time.” Julia chimed in, agreeing with Eliot’s fake admiration for Shakespeare’s  _ Romeo and Juliet _ . Quentin gave her a betrayed look and sputtered, mouth gaping like a goldfish.

“See?  _ Everybody _ talks about it!” Eliot stated jovially.

“That’s-- B--” Quentin was nearly tearing out his hair, running his hands through it like he does when he’s overwhelmed. Eliot thought it was cute. “They talk about how shitty it is!”

“El,” Margo badgered. “Stop being a dick, you hate Romeo and Juliet.”

Eliot closed his eyes and shrugged, picking up the bottle of wine on the coffee table and reaching to empty it into Quentin’s glass. Margo was right, Eliot  _ despised _ the tragedy but he was having too much fun watching Quentin’s skin crawl with literary-debate induced frustration.

“People change, Bambi,” Eliot lied. “I’ve re-assessed my judgement and find it all to be spectacularly brilliant.”

“ _ Really _ .” Margo didn’t even say it like a confirmation. She was sarcastic, and lifted her head to burn a hole into the side of Eliot’s head. “You changed your mind over the course of what? Two years? Three?.”

Julia was enjoying herself, simply watching the chaos around her come and go in waves. Quentin was looking down at a spot on the table like he was arguing with himself. Eliot knew what was coming next and he internally groaned.

“Our lovely Eliot Waugh was in his college’s production of Romeo and Juliet.” Margo announced, turning on to her side and propping her head up on her hand. Quentin looked a little surprised and glanced at Julia, who looked to Eliot curiously.

“It wasn’t a  _ production _ , Margo.” He rolled his eyes, swirling his glass. “It was the end of term project for my intensive theatre class.”

“Just because there weren’t tights doesn’t mean you didn’t do it, El,” she murmured teasingly. He smiled, laughing at himself. Quentin looked even more shocked now.

“How much do you remember?” Julia asked.

“Ugh, I drilled Romeo’s lines into my head so hard that I could probably perform it in my sleep.” Eliot lolled his head back, feigning annoyance. When he lifted his head again, he caught Quentin’s eye. Eliot looked him up and down and then locked his sight on to Quentin’s dark eyes. He didn’t even prepare himself, Eliot just started performing from there on the floor of the Physical Kids’ Cottage.

“O, then, dear saint,” his eyes fixed on Quentin’s, intense and trapping. “Let lips do what hands do. They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

Quentin didn’t say anything, he just stared back in astonishment, lips parted slightly. As if given a response, Eliot continued.

“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.” He didn’t smirk. Eliot stayed as seriously as Quentin had ever seen him outside of life-threatening situations. He raises his eyebrows, voice soft. “Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

The room is silent and tense for a moment. Eliot and Quentin just stared at one another. The shorter of the men looked almost scared, finally glancing away and gulping. Eliot noted the pink rising up from his friend’s chest to his cheeks. It made him smile. He was tempted to crawl across the table and actually kiss Quentin.

He restrained himself.

“Wow, Eliot,” Julia nodded, sipping her wine. “You’re  _ really _ good. Were you a Theatre Major?”

“Liberal Arts.” He corrected, smiling down at her. She gazed back at him with a knowing look. It made Eliot’s mouth go dry.

“Well,” He got himself up off the floor and bounced a little. “We need more wine.”

He strutted back to the kitchen and stood at the sink to calm his nerves. Julia was very nice, and he liked her. What made her so scary was how easily she saw through him. She knew him almost as well as Margo did, just without the knowledge of his oh-so-tragic past.

Eliot rubbed at his temples for a moment. He really wanted to kiss Quentin. Damn, he  _ really _ wanted to kiss Quentin. As much as he hated the Shakespearean tragedy, Eliot had to say it did a great job at making his friend blush.

He sighed and then heard a shuffling behind him. He twisted his waist to peek at whoever was there. It was Quentin. He was awkwardly leaning from one side to the other and avoiding Eliot’s gaze. There was still a dust of pink across the man’s cheeks. It filled Eliot with a loving satisfaction.

“Uh, I, um,” Quentin gestured to the sink. “I just wanted some...water…”

Eliot nodded and stepped away from the sink to look through the wine rack on the adjacent wall. He wanted to tell Quentin just how cute he thought he was. How he wanted to love him and care for him like that. Had he drank enough wine to do that yet? Maybe.

He slid a bottle off of the rack and held it to his stomach while thinking.

“Were you not entertained?” Eliot asked in a melodramatic voice. He turned to Quentin and waggled his eyebrows with a small teasing smile.

“It was good, El, just,” Quentin glanced at him. “Did you have to fuck me with your eyes that entire time?”

Eliot willed himself not to blush. He stepped closer to Quentin, looking down at him. He placed the bottle on the counter behind Quentin. The shorter man stammered out Eliot’s name, sounding breathless.

“I can continue.” Eliot stated, not quite an offer. He intruded into Quentin's space but managed to not touch him. Quentin sputtered out a response.

Eliot didn’t wait for a coherent answer. His voice dropped, soft and intimate. He wanted to kiss Quentin so bad. God,, how many times would he have to torture himself with that thoguht.

“Did my heart love till now?” He murmured, raising his eyebrows as if Quentin was supposed to know the answer. Eliot reached up and ran his index finger knuckle along the line of Quentin’s jaw. Quentin’s eyes fluttered. “Forswear it, sigh. For I ne’er saw true beauty…”

He leaned in, ghosting his lips over Quentin’s.

“...till this night.”

Eliot could see the breath hitch in Quentin’s lungs. He glanced down at his friend’s chest, noticing the way his breathing had gotten a little ragged. He looked back up at Quentin and then leaned forward again, only to grab the neck of the unopened wine bottle.you.

He took a step back and smirked, Quentin staring at him with wide eyes. The kid looked like he would stroke out any moment. 

“A-are you--” Quentin choked a little. “Um, are you still teasing me?”

“Relax, Q.” Eliot’s voice returned to it’s low, blase tone and tempo. “I’m fucking with you. I had actually gotten the part of Mercutio.”

He gave one last wolfish smile before turning and announcing the fresh win to the room. The pop of a cork followed and a cheer from Margo. Quentin stood in the kitchen looking dazed and a little lost. Eliot had sat down with the rest of the group, pouring wine and ignoring the tight regret in his chest.


End file.
